. . show them what we have . . . give them a chance to respond.”
Melissa rocked back in her chair, and took her compact out of her purse. “Christ, I look horrible,” she murmured. Her eyes ranged ravenously over her crowded desk till she caught sight of the now famous edition of People that featured her on the cover. She could hardly recognize the tall, spindly blond in the picture. Her softly textured silky blond hair flowed freely in the breeze. She appeared glamorous, but not complacent, reflective, but not insecure, cautious, but not fearful. It hadn’t been that long ago, perhaps a year . . . not even. Had it been that long since she had been relaxed enough to feel beautiful?
She picked up the prescription bag from her desk and took out the bottle of cough medicine. “One teaspoonful every four to six hours.” If one teaspoonful could do the job, two teaspoonfuls should do it better. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get the bottle open. Damned safety tops.
“Sally, come in here please,” she barked over the intercom.
Sally Cummings, Melissa’s administrative assistant, came rushing into the office—perky little brunette, with narrow eyes, curvy eyebrows, and a low-pitched voice. She was wearing that skin-tight mini skirt, two inches above the knees, that Melissa had specifically made a point of warning her about just last week.
“Sally, haven’t I warned you to dress more appropriately?” Melissa’s voice had become raspy, and seemed like it was about to give out.
“You’re right, you have. But I couldn’t get to the dry cleaners on Saturday to pick up my clothes, and this was the only thing I didn’t send out. It won’t happen again.”
Melissa was still annoyed but too sick to continue the discussion. She’d revisit the subject of her administrative assistant’s dress code another time. For now, she thought it best to accept her explanation at face value. In spite of it all, she was very fond of Sally. Besides being a fellow alumnus of North Dakota University, graduating just three years after Melissa, she had excellent office skills and meshed well with Melissa’s compulsive personality. Sally saw to it that everything got done, and got done right. And she always held an ear open for Melissa to talk about her often times rocky social life. Over the past couple of years, Melissa had grown to depend on Sally for moral support.
“Can you open this for me, Sally?” Melissa asked politely, handing her the bottle.
Sally placed her palm firmly on the screw-top as she simultaneously pushed down and twisted. Then she poured the dose into the measuring cup the pharmacist had provided.
“Two teaspoons, Sally,” Melissa demanded.
“It says one, Miss Compton.”
“Two,” Melissa insisted.
Sally carefully measured two teaspoonfuls and handed the dose cup over to Melissa who drank it down in a gulp, wincing as she swallowed.
“Sally, can I ask you something?” Melissa inquired. Her voice seemed re-energized by the syrup.
“Yes, Miss Compton.”
“Why didn’t you announce Mr. Mallory?”
“I did announce him, Miss Compton.”
“Oh! My ears are ringing . . . clogged, I must not have heard you. Did you know that was Rick Mallory, the commentator who appears on Court TV?”
“I don’t watch Court TV,” Sally confessed.
“What are your impressions of him, Sally?”
“Very strong, yet gentle,” Sally said, gazing dreamingly out the window.
“Get me Mr. Abbott on the telephone,” Melissa ordered, veering swiftly away from the subject of Rick Mallory.
Douglas Abbott, Melissa’s fiancée, a major player in the network news business was a seminal genius, never kowtowing to the media moguls. He had a slate of successful programs, starting out as associate producer of Saturday night Star Trek reruns on WNEP out of Scranton, Pa. The Network picked him up as producer of the local news in Pittsburgh, and he quickly demonstrated his metal, quickly bringing the broadcast to the top of the ratings. After a string of successes in local markets, he hit the national networks in the early nineties, producing The Nightly Report, with Edgar White. It instantly took off, surging past the competition. He introduced Tunnel Vision as a secondary vehicle to air the features that couldn’t make the nightly news. But the program exceeded his expectations, turning out to be a bonanza. Hiring Melissa as feature reporter was a stroke of genius; the first news bunny to assume the role of anchor on a news magazine. Featuring a crack investigative staff, the show was first rate. Tunnel Vision soon became the top-rated program on television and sustained its position for six years running.
The relationship between Doug and Melissa had been completely platonic. Doug, ten years her senior had a wife and two children. Episcopalian, from central Pennsylvania, he was staid, proper and unbending. Yet, his harsh exterior belied a sensitive interior. Those close to him grew to worship him not only for his exceptional business acumen but also as a person. He was a moral force in the industry, both feared and paradoxically, adored. Melissa, a Catholic from the mid-west was his young protégé. The paternal shield that Abbot placed between them at the outset all but dissolved over the years of their close association. Melissa’s allure was too much to resist, even for the staunchest of Sunday church-goers. Blond, blue-eyed, ivory skinned, the five-foot seven long-legged beauty outshined most cover girls when it came to glamour. The confidence she received from Doug put her on even footing with the elite intelligentsia of the New York media, with whom she sparred in feisty hard-hitting interviews, never giving and inch. Over time, the familiarity between them blossomed into love. Doug divorced his wife four years ago; he then pursued Melissa with the same intensity that he pursued television ratings. Their partnership, in the immensely successful Tunnel Vision, was the aphrodisiac that propelled their public and private lives and was about to culminate with their wedding. Three presidents adorned the guest list, as well as every network executive and major CEO of every media conglomerate in the country. More like a coronation than a wedding: the king and queen of network news would have a world class wedding bash, followed by a two-week honeymoon on Grand Bahama Island at Abbott’s private estate then assume permanent residence in the Garden of Eden, his penthouse atop 300 Central Park West.
The loutish aspect of that oversized egotist, Mallory, presented a stark contrast to the sedate iconoclast she was about to marry. Mallory had youth, boyish charm, and an animal magnetism that he projected with an annoying lack of subtlety—Doug, maturity and power. The age difference between them had never entered her mind. It was a non-issue. She worshipped Abbott’s idealism, sense of purpose, and capacity to reduce corporate giants to sniveling sycophants. It was just that she was caught off guard by Mallory. Mistaking him for the maintenance man had set things off in the wrong direction. For the first time in a long time she had exited her public persona and reanimated the farm girl from Fargo. Why had she been so contentious with the man? True, his self-confident manner had rubbed her the wrong way . . . but he had a certain allure . . . a likable smile with eyes that pierced her armor. Why then had she felt this overbearing compulsion to send him on his way?
The sound of Abbott’s voice immediately put her at ease, refocusing her attention to the business at hand. “Line up Clearwater?” Abbott asked.
“Yes. We’re taping this afternoon,” she replied. She paused purposely. “I had a strange visit, this morning—from Rick Mallory. You know him?”
“The Super Sleuth. I should say so. I hired him,” Doug revealed.
